


Gaunt Griefs

by ScoutLover



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Male Friendship, Savoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis isn’t the only one haunted by the ghosts of Savoy. After the Duke’s visit and Marsac’s return stir up those ghosts, Tréville needs a friend as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gaunt Griefs

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many stories focused on the boys taking care of Aramis after the events of “The Good Soldier,” and they’re lovely. But as I watched the ep again (yes, I’m on a rewatching binge; I’m in severe Musketeer withdrawal), I kept focusing on Tréville, and what all this is doing to him. How must the knowledge that he ordered his own men to their slaughter eat at him, how must the ghosts of those men haunt him? Clearly, he needs some care and compassion, too. And who better to offer it than a man all too familiar with having his own “ghost” come back to life? Besides, it’s another reason to write Tréville and Athos together. The title is from the poem “The Ghost of the Past” by Thomas Hardy.
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://scoutlover.tumblr.com/)!

Athos stepped out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him, then leaned wearily upon it and exhaled heavily. Exhaustion, sorrow, and not a small amount of guilt weighed upon him like a leaden cloak, and, for a moment, his knees threatened to buckle beneath him.

Christ, he needed a drink. No, he needed a goddamned bottle. _Many_ bottles. He could feel the thirst clawing at him, feel every nerve and every sinew in his body aching from it, feel the craving in the very marrow of his bones. And he ruthlessly pushed it away. _Not yet._ This day wasn’t finished with him yet, nor he with it. He had one more duty to fulfill. And he would not be drunk on duty.

He’d made that promise to Tréville five years ago, and somehow he’d managed to keep it. And after these past few days, when so many other promises, spoken and not, had been broken, he’d be damned if he would add one more to the list.

Strangely, though, it was that awareness of, and shame in, promises broken that held him in place. On the other side of this door, Aramis was asleep, and deeply so. _Finally._ After days of running on nothing but sheer emotion, of being dragged back into his deepest, blackest hell, of confronting ghosts at every turn and then being forced to put one of those ghosts into a very real grave, he’d finally, thankfully, given in to his grief, had raged and wept until he had nothing left, and, at last, had fallen into exhausted sleep. Athos doubted he’d wake any time soon, and, even if he did, Porthos was with him, was more than able, and willing, to provide whatever comfort Aramis might need. Was certainly, with his warmth and strength and infinite heart, better suited to such than himself, who, though he loved his brothers deeply, still often struggled with expressing that love. He would never be able to give Aramis the boundless, unstinting affection that poured so effortlessly from Porthos, and that Aramis would surely need.

Even so, he _owed_ Aramis. He’d not been as supportive as he could have been, _should_ have been, in the beginning, had allowed his instinctive dislike of Marsac, and his deep regard for Tréville, to keep him from offering the understanding and help that Aramis had needed. That should have been his by right. Aramis’ past had suddenly cracked wide open and spewed forth its ghosts, and the man had desperately needed answers. _He_ should have understood that – Christ, who _better_ than him? – and yet he’d held back. He’d _failed_ Aramis when the man, hurting and distraught, had needed him most.

How could he leave him now? It smacked of another betrayal, another abandonment, even of cowardice. After all the times _he’d_ shattered and Aramis had gathered up his pieces and put them back together, how could he now walk away when _Aramis_ was broken and in need?

Except that Aramis had Porthos, who was shelter enough for a hundred wounded souls. And Aramis hadn’t been the only one to have his past ripped open. Hadn’t been the only one forced back into the horrors of Savoy. And that other victim had no Porthos. Had _no one_ who might be able to understand. Except him.

The poor bastard. God help any man who found himself depending on _him_ for comfort and warmth.

Still, he owed Tréville every bit as much as he owed Aramis. The man had taken a chance on him when he’d been nothing but a ruined and broken – drunken – wreck, had given him a purpose when he’d lost his own, had allowed him to find honor again when he would have sworn he had none left. Tréville had given him back his life, his _sanity_ , and he would never be able to thank him sufficiently for that.

But he could, at the very least, be there for the man who’d done so much for him.

He sighed deeply again, pulled himself wearily away from Aramis’ door, and started with heavy, trudging steps toward the stairs that would take him to his captain’s office.

*****

Tréville stood at the window behind his desk, leaning against the wall and staring out, seeing nothing. Or nothing _out there_. The images that troubled him, that accused him, were all in his mind, in his memory, and, try as he might, he could not break their hold upon him. _Bodies in blood-drenched snow, corpses twisted and frozen in the agony of death. So many empty eyes open, so many mouths calling soundlessly for help that never came._ They’d never truly left, but, after five years, he’d learned to live with them. Or thought he had.

Until the Duke and Marsac had returned and pulled the ghosts out of their graves again.

He knew he’d had no choice in what he’d done – the King had given him no choice – and even understood why it had been necessary. The needs of France came before all. But that didn’t make it any easier, any more palatable. Any less a betrayal.

It didn’t make the deaths, the _murders_ , of twenty of his men any less a bleeding wound in his heart or an indelible stain upon his honor. It didn’t make his part in those deaths any less a burden upon his soul.

More painful still, it was a burden he was unable to share.

His men remained blissfully ignorant of all that had happened. For them, the Duke of Savoy had come and gone, the King’s precious treaty had been signed, France was just that little bit more secure, and none of their brothers had been lost to any of it. All was good and right in their world. Oh, they knew Marsac had returned, but knew only that the deserter of Savoy had come here to kill _him_ in some insane need for vengeance, and that Aramis had killed the man who’d left _him_ to die five years ago. Fitting. Almost poetically so, a rare gift of justice from a world not generally inclined to such.

It wasn’t true, of course. But they, these men he loved so fiercely, would never, _could_ never, know the truth. France kept her secrets, even from the men sworn to defend and die for her, and so would he. So _must_ he.

Though it cost him his very soul–

A sudden and quiet knocking upon his door startled him from his thoughts, and he felt a sharp rise of irritation. Goddamn it, if the King dared make some foolish demand upon his time just now–

A harsh, bitter scrape of laughter broke from him. If the King dared make some foolish demand upon his time just now, he would obey as he always did. He knew no other way.

He exhaled sharply and straightened, turning away from the window. “Come!” he called brusquely.

The door opened, and he was shocked to see Athos stepping in. He’d fully expected the man, along with Porthos, to plant himself at Aramis’ side and refuse to leave until this latest trauma had healed. That Athos was here, now, sent a ripple of dread down his spine.

Aramis had barely survived Savoy once. What if a second time had finally proved too much?

“Why aren’t you with Aramis?” he demanded, more harshly than he’d intended, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Is something wrong? Is he all right? Has–”

Athos raised a hand, silencing his questions. “Aramis is–” He hesitated briefly. His first thought had been to say “fine,” but Aramis _wasn’t_ fine, and likely wouldn’t be for a good while yet. “He is resting,” he continued in his quiet, cultured voice. “Porthos is with him.” He closed the door behind him and moved with his familiar supple grace to Tréville’s desk, regarding his captain through guarded eyes. “He was exhausted and should sleep for a good while. I thought I might be needed elsewhere.”

Tréville frowned, not understanding. All should, for now, be quiet. His men had their usual duties, of course, and more than a few were out on missions beyond Paris, but, for once, there were no looming threats, no gathering crises, nothing that endangered the regiment or, worse, France. Tréville could think of nothing that required his lieutenant’s attention, certainly nothing urgent enough to tear him from his suffering brother’s side.

Unless, of course, it was this entire business with Savoy. His stomach clenched painfully at the thought. True, there were men in the regiment now who’d not been here then, who had no personal recollections of those black and awful days, but there were also men who _had_ , men who’d lost friends, brothers, and who still carried the scars of those losses. The Duke’s visit would almost certainly have stirred up unpleasant memories in them, and God alone knew what the mention of _Marsac’s_ name might inspire. Had he missed something? Had he been so lost in his own horror, his own pain, that he’d failed to see some bit of trouble in the ranks–

“Peace, Captain,” Athos said softly, again raising his hand to still Tréville’s racing thoughts. “All is well with the men.”

Tréville exhaled unsteadily and shuddered, then moved slowly to his desk and dropped gracelessly into his chair. He supposed it should unnerve him that Athos should be able to read his thoughts, his fears, so easily. Then again, this was _Athos_. The man could be maddeningly perceptive, and Tréville suspected his shattered nerves made him unusually transparent.

“Very well,” he rasped, clasping his hands tightly together on the desk to control their trembling. “If the problem is not with the men, then where is it? Why are you here instead of with Aramis?”

Athos arched a brow. “As I said before, I thought I might be needed.” He studied Tréville worriedly. The man looked worn-through and frayed thin, his face pale, deeply lined … and bruised. Athos frowned slightly at that, tipping his head to one side, brows pulling low in concern. “Who hit you?” he asked, though a dark suspicion rose in his mind.

_Aramis …_

Tréville shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he breathed. And it didn’t. He could, by all rights, have Aramis up on charges, punished, and even stripped of his commission for striking him. But to what end? He’d understood what had driven Aramis’ violence, had even, in some dark part of himself, welcomed it. God knew he’d deserved it. And Aramis had suffered enough because of him. “It’s all in the past now.”

Athos winced and bowed his head. That’s what they’d all thought before. But the past of late was displaying a nasty delight in forcing itself into the present, first at la Fère and now with Savoy. He couldn’t help wondering when Porthos and d’Artagnan could expect to be visited by shadows from _their_ pasts.

Tréville stared up at his lieutenant, strangely unsettled by the man’s presence. Normally he enjoyed visiting with Athos, found his calm and quiet demeanor a soothing balm when he was troubled, welcomed his keen insight into events, and delighted in the man’s wry, dry humor. Just now, though, that presence grated, reminded him of the last time Athos had stood in this office, his cold eyes accusing and damning.

“If you’re here for an apology,” he said roughly, defensively, “you won’t get one. I’ve made all the explanations I intend to.”

Athos frowned again. “I expect no apology, nor even a further explanation. Aramis told us everything.” He shrugged slightly. “You did what you had to do. What you were ordered to do.” His frown deepened and he bowed his head, fidgeting absently with his sword hilt as he suddenly remembered their ugly confrontation yesterday. “Indeed,” he sighed, “I think it is I – we – who owe _you_ an apology. We doubted you, accused you–”

“You had reason,” Tréville said in a low, hoarse voice, dropping his gaze to his desk. “Aramis was in pain.” Try as he might, he could not forget the raw, searing torment he’d seen in the man’s dark eyes. “You merely wanted … to help him. To discover the truth. Marsac’s accusations–”

“ _Marsac!_ ” Athos spat, his low voice laced with venom. Anger coursed through him at the very thought of the man and the havoc, the _pain_ , he’d caused. “That bastard abandoned Aramis once, left him to die or, worse, to live and carry the horror of Savoy alone. And then he returned only to drag Aramis – and you – back into hell for no better reason than his own vengeance!” He speared Tréville with a hard, hot gaze. “I cannot imagine why you allowed him to be buried in our cemetery–”

“Because he was a Musketeer once,” Tréville said softly. “He was a good soldier once, and one of us–”

“He was a coward and a deserter! He _used_ Aramis, and he would have killed _you_ –”

“He was a lost soul, another victim of Savoy,” Tréville sighed. “And now he is at peace.” He lifted sorrowful eyes to his lieutenant. “Can we not grant him that, at least?”

Athos stared back a moment longer, then exhaled sharply and looked away, willing himself to relax. For himself, he wanted nothing more than to go to the cemetery, dig up Marsac, and put another pistol ball or two into the bastard’s corpse. For his captain and for Aramis, though, he was willing to allow the man the peace of his grave. Surely that wasn’t too much for anyone to ask. And surely he, of all men, could understand that.

He looked back to Tréville. “And you?” he asked softly, taking in again the man’s lined and bruised face. “Will you be granted peace at last?”

Tréville stiffened and sucked in a hard breath, again clenching his hands tightly together. _Peace._ The word mocked him with its promise and its impossibility. Twenty men lay in that cemetery because of him. Marsac had been broken because of him. Aramis had come perilously near that, _twice_ , because of him.

What peace could he possibly hope to find, or even, really, deserve?

Athos watched the pain, the guilt, play over his captain’s face, read every self-recrimination written so plainly there, and sighed. This he understood so well – the guilt, the shame, that never let go, that poisoned the mind and crippled the soul, that made each day a cold, gray prison. He knew this torment intimately, and he could not bear the thought of his captain, his _friend_ , suffering it, enduring it, as he did.

Tréville deserved so much better.

He turned and made his way to the man’s wine cabinet, still mindful of his five-year-old promise, but knowing they both needed something to take the edge off nerves still too sharp, too raw. Tréville needed to talk, to release his pain, but the man was so tightly wound, and so tightly bound by his duty, that he would never do it on his own.

Athos understood _that_ , too.

To his relief, the key was in the lock in the cabinet door, sparing him from the charade of searching for it. He well knew where Tréville kept it “hidden,” had made himself watch him put it away once when the man had thought him too sodden and addled to see _anything_ , understood, to his own shame, why Tréville thought it necessary to keep it hidden from him. Easy access to drink was a dangerous thing to allow a drunk. But he’d known the location of the key for five years and hadn’t abused that knowledge yet.

He supposed there was some small triumph in that.

He opened the cabinet, took out a bottle, then closed the door but did not lock it. Just in case. He found two cups, carried it all back to his captain, set the cups on the desk, and poured two generous measures.

Tréville looked up at him and arched a brow. “Is this your answer for everything?” he asked, the words coming out more harshly than he’d intended. But it pained him, _angered_ him, to see a man of Athos’ immense gifts drowning those gifts, and himself, in drink. One day they would lose him to that drink, and all of France would be poorer for it.

Certainly, he and all who loved the man would be.

Athos heard the condemnation, the fear, in the words but shrugged it off, as he’d done almost daily for five years with Aramis and Porthos. And now with d’Artagnan. Every man sought his own remedy for his own pain. He allowed them theirs, and asked only that they show him the same courtesy.

“No,” he breathed. “But I find it helps when there are no answers, and we both know there are no good answers for Savoy.” He picked up one of the cups and held it out to Tréville.

Tréville exhaled sharply and took the cup impatiently, knowing the man was right. Again. Damn him. Athos bobbed his head in a small, courtly gesture, then took up his own cup. He turned, sought a chair and pulled it closer to the desk, then settled himself into it.

Tréville waited for him to speak, but he only sipped at his wine. Tréville gave a soft huff and drank from his own, wondering what in the hell he’d been thinking. A man could die of old age waiting for Athos to speak.

Silence between them was familiar, and usually comfortable. They often spent portions of their days in this manner, captain and lieutenant, _friends_ , reflecting on events, seeking solace after some hardship, or simply basking in the rare pleasure of a day, a mission, gone right. They shared joys, sought consolation, battled through frustration, sometimes without ever saying a word.

Now, though, the silence grated. Tréville wasn’t sure whether it was his own conscience, his own guilt, or the hooded green eyes across from him that watched him without seeming to, but something in the air, beneath his own skin, pricked sharply at him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, drank again from his wine. But the itching in his mind, and those green eyes, wouldn’t let him be.

“When did you know?” he asked at last, fingers tight around his cup. He didn’t want this conversation, didn’t want to know what had been lost to him. But his entire life had been spent striding into battle, and he could not, _would_ not, change that now.

Athos, slouching elegantly in his chair, lifted two brows. “Know what?”

Tréville bit back a curse. Among all his other gifts, Athos had a true talent for being a bloody infuriating bastard. “That Marsac was right about me,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

Athos uttered a sound of disgust, his eyes hardening. “Marsac _wasn’t_ right about you,” he said in short, clipped tones, his contempt and loathing for the man unabated by his death. “He thought you a traitor. He would have sacrificed this regiment, all of _France_ , to his delusions.”

“And yet,” Tréville breathed softly, staring down into his wine, wine as red as blood, “he wasn’t wrong. I ordered my men to Savoy. I allowed those orders to fall into the Duke’s hands that he might know where the men would be–”

“Because the King commanded it,” Athos reminded him quietly, easily able to see the guilt, the terrible sorrow, in the lines of his captain’s face and the slump of his shoulders. Tréville had been carrying this burden for five years, and carrying it alone. He had to feel it, to stagger beneath it, each time he looked out at his men. Athos couldn’t imagine why it hadn’t crushed him before now, and prayed he could somehow ease its weight before it did. “Because France required it.”

Tréville looked sharply at the man at those words. Athos spoke of France the way few others did, as if she were not merely a land, his home, but something knit into his very bones, something that lived and breathed in him and through him. When he led men into battle, he eschewed fiery speeches and fierce exhortations, and simply called, “For France!” As if that were enough for him and should be so for all.

“How old is your family?” he asked softly. He knew who Athos was, had finally wrung that truth from him several years ago, but, out of respect for a man who’d given so much to him, had kept his secret. He’d asked no questions, done no digging into the mystery of the Comte de la Fère. But he knew la Fère was in Normandy, a land that had bled so often and so deeply in France’s countless wars for survival, knew the heavily jeweled sword on the wall above the man’s bed dated from the time of Francis I and suspected it had come from the hand of that king as well. He knew Athos’ father, and Athos himself, had fought in Louis’ defense when Marie de Medici had raised a rebellion against him, had heard him say that his father, though a devout Catholic, had fought in support of the Protestant Henry IV even before his conversion.

He wondered now just how many kings had won and kept their crowns with the help of his soft-spoken lieutenant’s family.

Athos realized the direction Tréville’s thoughts had taken and felt a twinge of discomfort. He could, of course, recite the history of his family, its deeds and misdeeds, heroics and failings, back through countless generations. But to do so would force him to wade into the pain of his own failings, and that he refused to do, even for the man before him. So he simply shrugged. “Suffice it to say,” he finally murmured, “that our blood runs deep into the soil of France, and that we have borne many wounds on her behalf.” He shrugged again. “We have ever been hers to command.”

Tréville frowned and stared again into his wine. “You make it sound so simple,” he mused, “so … benign. As if France will only ever ask what is right and good. As if loyalty to France will never come without a price.”

“That is certainly not my intent,” Athos said. “And it is certainly not true.” He lifted a hand to gesture around the office. “We sit here, in a garrison of soldiers whose sole purpose is to fight, kill, and die for France. I have arrested and taken to prison, and even killed, men whose only crime was questioning or disagreeing with the King, while I have delivered gifts and platitudes to, and have even protected, men who would see my King toppled from his throne. I have turned a blind eye to behavior and deeds that turn my blood cold because the men responsible were _important_ , and I have seen the helpless and the blameless suffer because they do not matter. So you tell me, please,” he lifted his chin, “where is the _simplicity_ in any of this?”

Tréville slammed his cup down upon the desk and stared through hard eyes at his lieutenant, fury rising through him. “Such things hardly compare with sending my own men to their slaughter!” he spat. “Men who trusted me, who believed that I would never betray them so! Those men have haunted my dreams for five years, accusing me – and rightly so – of the foulest of crimes! Now you tell me what you know of _that_!”

Athos said nothing, words refusing to come. But in his mind’s eye he saw a beloved brother lying in a pool of blood, saw a beloved wife on a cart beneath a tree, a noose around her neck, felt his whole world, his very soul, drain of all warmth and life as he gave the order for her death.

He swallowed hard, almost choking on his guilt and grief. “More than you could possibly imagine,” he rasped, then raised his cup and drained his wine in a deep and desperate drink.

 _It was my duty to uphold the law!_ he vaguely remembered himself all but sobbing to d’Artagnan. _My duty to condemn the woman I loved to death!_

Promise be damned. He needed more wine.

Tréville chewed his lip and watched in silence as Athos thrust himself to his feet and all but lunged for the bottle, pouring until his cup was full with a visibly trembling hand. The man had gone deathly pale, his eyes flooding with raw anguish, and Tréville wished yet again that Athos would share with him, with _anyone_ , whatever it was that haunted him so.

“Perhaps you do understand,” he sighed as Athos returned to his seat and fought _not_ to empty his cup in one drink. “Perhaps we both bear the burden of guilt for decisions we should never have made.”

“Sometimes we have no choice,” Athos sighed, trying to force his ghosts back into their graves. In truth, though, he had no idea how he was supposed to do that when one of those “ghosts” had revealed herself to be very much alive. Christ, no wonder he hated Marsac so. The man had done to Aramis and Tréville what Anne had done to him.

“I could have refused,” Tréville countered.

“Refused your king?” Athos scoffed, staring at Tréville as if he’d grown a second head. “Pray tell me how you would’ve managed that _and_ kept command of the regiment.”

Tréville stared down at the desk, seeing again the twenty men he had condemned. They had all been so young, so proud of their commissions, so eager to serve … “Perhaps it would have been worth losing my command, if it meant saving them,” he whispered, the words like a dagger in his heart. The regiment was all he had in this world, everything he loved, the proudest achievement of his life. He’d given his life to these men, dedicated his whole self to them, had made them his gift to his King. To France. But if by giving all that up he could have saved them–

“And your sacrifice would have been for nothing,” Athos said coldly, steadiness returning to his voice, and to his hands. “Louis would only have appointed someone else, or, worse, _Richelieu_ would have. The order _still_ would have been given, it _still_ would have been obeyed, and those men would _still_ be dead. What, then, would you have gained?”

Tréville shot him a hard stare. “Five years of untroubled sleep?” he snapped back. “A conscience untainted by their deaths? Honor not stained by their blood?”

“And when the King or his First Minister appointed some arse-licking toady with no notion of honor and no military skill?” Athos pressed ruthlessly, determined to make his captain see his worth. He rose suddenly to his feet, set his cup on the desk, and turned on his heel. “Come with me,” he ordered with unconscious authority, striding toward the door.

Tréville scowled at his lieutenant’s presumption, but found himself obeying, as so many did when Athos used that tone.

_Imperious bastard._

He followed Athos out onto the balcony overlooking the yard. The clouds had all but gone and sunshine poured down, lending the afternoon a golden glow. Men were all about despite the mud, training, tending weapons and tack, eating and drinking, embracing the simple pleasure of just being alive another day. Athos leaned against the railing, his sharp gaze sweeping over the men, and Tréville braced himself against a wooden post, wondering what in the hell was going through his lieutenant’s often unfathomable mind.

“Tell me what you see,” Athos demanded.

Tréville narrowed his eyes and scowled deeply. There were in all of France only a very small handful of men with the authority to order him around, and, unless something had changed _very_ recently, Athos wasn’t one of them. Yet, grudgingly, he found himself once more obeying that quietly commanding voice.

Christ, but the man would make one hell of a captain one day. Provided he didn’t drink himself to death first.

He turned slightly, stared down into the yard, and watched the men. _His_ men, most of them hand-picked for the regiment by him, all of them here only because he wanted them. Because he saw something in them, some spark of promise, of greatness, something in them that the regiment, that France, needed.

“Froissard still leaves himself to open to close attack,” he murmured as he watched two of the men sparring with swords below him. “You should work with him on that.”

“I have tried,” Athos sighed, wincing as the man’s opponent, Gervais, launched an attack whose end he could plainly foresee. “He does not always listen.”

Tréville snorted. “Convince him.” He cast a side glare at Athos. “You’re good at that.”

A small, almost mischievous smile twitched at Athos’ mouth. “I might have to relieve him of some of his pride.”

“He’s got plenty to spare,” Tréville chuckled, knowing the young man in question had great promise, but could also be just a bit too aware of his gifts. “Do what you must. I won’t have my men leaving themselves open that way.”

Athos bobbed his head slightly, still smiling, not missing the warmth and pride that colored the captain’s voice when he spoke of _his_ men. Below them, three more men strolled in through the gates, coming off their patrol of the city, and he straightened. “Ah, there is Dumont. I was going to recommend him and Beauvoir for that mission to Poitiers–”

“Oh, for God’s sake, you know I can’t send him!” Tréville protested irritably. “You know as well as I do that his uncle is bishop there, and is currently engaged in a nasty feud with the mayor. The people are backing the mayor, and if Richelieu chooses to get involved, it could turn ugly. I won’t send him into that kind of hornet’s nest. Send Beauvoir and Laurent instead, and give Dumont the mission to Honfleur.”

Athos chewed the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling. He well knew Dumont’s familial connections and had never truly entertained any notion of sending him to Poitiers. But he needed Tréville to remember that _he_ knew these men, too, better than anyone else, and that only one who knew them, who understood and _loved_ them, could effectively command them.

“Forgive me,” he said mildly. “Honfleur it is.”

Tréville scowled at him, suddenly understanding what he was doing. “You’re a sly bastard, aren’t you?” he growled.

Athos shrugged lightly. “So Aramis is constantly telling me.” He turned to face his captain, hitching a hip against the railing and crossing his arms against his chest. “But tell me saving yourself from the agony of losing those twenty men would be worth whatever harm might come to this regiment, to these men, under someone else’s command. Tell me seeing one of Louis’ lapdogs, or one of Richelieu’s, in command would be better than seeing those twenty faces in your sleep. Tell me feeling responsible for the deaths of twenty men is worse than _abandoning_ your responsibility to _all_ of us.”

Tréville stiffened and scowled, stung to anger. “You have no right–”

“I have every right!” he shot back, careful to keep his voice from carrying to the men below. “I am one of the men who puts his life into your hands every day! I lead men in your name.” He let his arms fall and stepped closer to Tréville, staring intently at him. “Do you honestly believe that I could lead Aramis and Porthos, and now d’Artagnan, on missions _you_ have given us, with orders and information _you_ have provided us, if I didn’t trust you? Yes, I know,” he said sharply, waving a hand impatiently as Tréville started to speak, “I have not always been particularly careful with _my_ life and perhaps may not always consider it worth safeguarding.” He saw the pain filling his captain’s eyes at that admission, but plunged on. “But the lives of my brothers are sacred to me, as nothing else on this earth is, and I would not, _could_ not, lead them into the danger we face every day if I doubted _you_.” He turned back to the men below. “We all serve the King and fight for France,” he said softly. “But we follow _you_. If you cannot believe in yourself just now, at least do us the courtesy of believing in us, and believing that we choose wisely those whom we love so dearly.”

Tréville gasped softly and sagged against the post as those quiet words, and the depth of feeling in them, drove through him with the force of a fist. He rarely heard Athos speak so openly, so unguardedly, and to hear the man now express so frankly his absolute faith in _him_ was a gift he dared not ignore. Athos believed in so little else, couldn’t even seem to believe in himself – and Tréville wasn’t certain he wanted to know what kind of hurt and betrayal lay behind _that_ – yet he trusted lives more precious to him than his own to his captain’s hands.

But it wasn’t just Athos.

When they had buried Marsac, _Aramis_ had chosen, _asked_ , him to stand with him in the cemetery. Still hurting and bleeding from his soul at the terrible truths that had been uncovered, Aramis had wanted _him_ there, in defiance of all sense and logic. But not, perhaps, of brotherhood. Of _trust_.

The same trust that every man in this regiment showed him every day by the simple, and profound, act of following him. Of believing him to be _worth_ following.

Could it really be that simple?

His gaze again sought out Athos, to whom, he knew, _nothing_ was simple.

“You know,” he said, his voice rough and thick, his chest tight, “that one day I will give an order which may well lead to the deaths of those you hold so dear. Someday I may give an order which will require you to _lead_ them to their deaths.”

Athos swallowed hard, still staring down into the yard. He knew. He’d had more nightmares about just such a day, such an order, than he cared to count. Had drained bottles and shaken until he’d feared he would come apart in the aftermath of those nightmares.

“I know,” he breathed, leaning on the railing and gripping it until his knuckles shone white. “But we are soldiers. And our fate does not rest in our own hands.”

Tréville watched him intently, seeing every flicker of his eyes, every tic in his face. Athos was a man who held himself tightly, even desperately, together. Sometimes Tréville wondered what would happen when the man finally let himself break completely apart. At other times, he shuddered at the very thought of finding out.

“And when that order comes?” he persisted.

Athos swallowed again and tightened his grip on the railing. But he knew, and needed Tréville to know, if only for the man to understand, finally and fully, what all this meant. “When that order comes,” he said softly, slowly, “I shall follow it to the best of my ability. Because I know it will not have been given lightly.”

“No,” Tréville breathed, “not lightly.” _Bodies in blood-drenched snow, corpses twisted and frozen in the agony of death. So many empty eyes open, so many mouths calling soundlessly for help that never came._ “Never that.”

Athos watched as, below, Gervais penetrated Froissard’s weak defense with his poignard and slapped the blade against his chest. In a real fight, Froissard would be dead.

“That is, in the end, all we can ask,” he said quietly. “We are soldiers. We fight, we kill, we die. Our lives are at France’s disposal. We only ask that she dispose of them with care, and with some thought to what they mean.”

Tréville sighed and shook his head, thinking of the King who, five years ago, had issued so terrible an order with so little understanding of, or concern for, what it had meant. “I am not certain,” he said carefully, “that _France_ , just now, can promise that.”

Athos understood his captain’s meaning, and had to agree. He would die for his King. He would also, very often, like to throttle him.

“Perhaps not.” He straightened and turned to Tréville, a small, warm smile curving about his mouth. “But I trust that the man who gives the orders in France’s name can. He has, so far, given me no reason to doubt him.” He bowed deeply, respectfully, then straightened, turned, and strode away.

He should be there when Aramis woke, as Aramis had been there so often for him.

Tréville watched him go, saw him stop long enough to order Froissard to spar with him tomorrow, and smiled as others began teasing their lieutenant’s chosen victim.

The ghosts of Savoy, he knew, would never leave him, and that was as it should be. The dead should never be forgotten, lest their sacrifice be in vain.

But here among the living, among these men whom he loved so fiercely, would he find solace, strength, and the means, at last, to make his peace with the dead. And, perhaps, to finally be granted absolution by them.

_The End_


End file.
